More of you
by ipodder
Summary: She hates the way he doesn't defend her, for not saying that she isn't becoming a soccer mom, but in truth she loves him for it, because she knows that he knows that she wouldn't trade this for anything, not even those gorgeous Jimmy Choos. Brooke/Julian


**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**Author's note: This is kind of different from what I usually write, it has no plot really, more of a random drabble about Brooke and Julian that I felt like writing. Please leave a review. **

She loves the way he looks after he wakes up. The way his scruff looks in the morning light, and how his floppy hair goes slightly messy and he has to run his hands through it a few times. She loves the way he always brushes his teeth before giving her a morning kiss, because however romantic that seems in movies, it's utterly disgusting in real life, even with him. She loves how he's always so well dressed, in a casual stripy shirt or a polo, and she loves his confident smirk when he catches her looking at him, looking at him _like that_. She really loves the way he can be such a jerk sometimes, a confident, arrogant one, reminding her of of their earlier encounters, where Lucas would always look like he wanted to beat him to death, but yet still be so gentle with her.

She accepts and adores his every fault. The way he steals all of her chips and popcorn on movie night, the stupid intellectual journals he likes reading, and how he becomes unconsciously competitive at dinner parties with other handsome, successful men around.

She hates how much he loves her, like it's not by choice, but by nature. It overwhelms her and calms her at the same time. His love is unconditional, unwavering, and she's scared that she'll mess it up, or that he'll get tired of her and run away with some attractive up and coming actress. She hates when they fight, and it's usually her fault but she's not good with words, not like him, and usually can't say anything to make it better. She hates the way his soft eyes harden at her bitchy remarks, as if he's physically trying to force himself not to cry.

She hates how his proposal was so damn perfect that she froze and ran to a bar. She hates how she even considered sleeping with that lean, smoldering man in the v neck t shirt that night, but when he leaned his face an inch away from hers, all she could see, smell and feel was him, and she hates how she instantly drove home in a mildly drunken state and attacked him with sloppy kisses.

But she loves the way he proposed again over chinese takeaway the next night.

She gets turned on by the smallest things that he does. The way he grins, or the way he sticks his tongue out when he's playful. She hates his jealous side, during a film festival in Los Angeles, a middle aged producer couldn't stop eyeing her all night, and ten minutes before the event started, she found herself being pushed into a women's bathroom, with his dry lips attacking hers, his large, yet soft hands hiking up her skirt and the other tangled in her hair.

She loved the way he didn't dare to pick up their baby girl during the first few months, but she also loved how he eventually tried, because he knew she was scared shitless too.

She gets so proud of him sometimes. Not even for the big recognition he receives in film journals or obscure websites, because really, that goes without saying; she's proud of him for the small things, like how he's always so patient with their daughter, who obviously inherited her numerical skills, not his. She loves how he looks when he's concentrating, with his brows furrowed together and his tongue slightly at the side, their daughter's pink barbie rubber at his side, patiently teaching her basic math.

This is for keeps, she muses one morning, over a latte, extra foam. She's so unbelievably attracted, in love, lust, everything that screams forever with him. Despite the fact that he sings too loudly sometimes in the shower and takes too much pleasure in pushing her mother's buttons. Although they're no longer living in Tree Hill, and have made San Francisco their home, a city that is trendy, artsy yet more understated, more subtle than the former.

During a saturday brunch with the blonde Scott clan, who have been traveling on and off for two, three years now (who knew Lucas would become so impulsive?) Peyton laughs at the way she came barging in the busy cafe, carrying a milk bottle and a massive stuffed purple monkey, with Julian and their tantrum throwing baby girl, she takes the whole morning joking about her new found love for domesticity.

She hates the way he doesn't defend her, for not saying that she isn't becoming a soccer mom (god forbid), but in truth she loves him for it, because she knows that he knows that she wouldn't trade this for anything, not even those gorgeous Jimmy Choos she saw in Vogue last week.

She loves the way his hand instantly finds hers under the table, and the way his thumb caresses hers.

Recently, she loves the way his hand softly soothes her round stomach, and how he just buys her more cakes and ice cream when she complains about getting fat, because he knows she'll ultimately regret not eating.

She doesn't know too much about politics, although being with him has turned her more 'book smart', not just 'brooke smart', doesn't care much for heated philosophical debates, or intellectual journals and math. But she loves how he's always trying to get her interested, even when he thinks she doesn't realise; his patient, simplified mathematical theories directed at their daughter has absorbed into her brain too sometimes.

She hates how he doesn't let her leave the room after a heated argument. One time, she got so mad at him for taking their daughter to the park without telling her, only to be back three hours later. But she loved how he let her repeatedly scream at him and jab his chest until she resigns in his warm embrace. She hates, however, the way he smirks and shakes his head when she later apologized and blamed it on her hormones, because he knew she was actually worried abut his well being, and their daughter's.

Most of all, she loves how he's always there, here and everywhere with her, and whenever she turns and falls, she knows he's standing nearby, willing to give her space but also ready to catch her when she crumbles. The idea of marrying a former mathlete probably made her laugh until her mouth ached, when she was seventeen, and the idea of marrying anyone at all terrified her before she met him. But right now, as she's lying in bed with him, stroking her second daughter's soft cheeks, internally smirking at the fact that he's now stuck with three girls in the house, she looks over to find him intently listening to their now seven year old's passionate re-telling of this smelly boy who gabbed her hair, she doesn't even want to imagine life any way else.


End file.
